


we were scared and tired and barely seventeen

by vlieger



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger





	we were scared and tired and barely seventeen

It was late, lagging summer in LA when Ryan wound up sitting cross-legged on Jon's floor with his guitar in his lap, contemplating moving to a chair since the circulation below his knees had started going funny about five minutes ago, strumming through the list of song drafts for the third album.

"Your jeans are too tight," said Jon, walking in with a rustle of plastic grocery bags.

"Your flip-flops are stupid," said Ryan without looking up.

Jon snorted and clicked his tongue.

"Where's everyone?" asked Ryan. When he looked over, Jon was setting the bags on the counter.

"Coming," said Jon. He moved closer to Ryan and sprawled out on the floor beside him. "Progress?"

Ryan shrugged. "This one," he said, "The one we tried yesterday, it's. I don't think it's going to work."

"Okay," said Jon easily. 

 

He tore the page out of his notebook later, frustrated. It was strange; the words were perfectly fine until he tried to sing them and then it was just…slightly off, something about the way his voice fit-- or didn't fit-- around the lyrics, something not quite right. Jon had tried and it had been better but still not quite what Ryan _wanted_. The trouble was he'd never been good at putting that kind of thing into words, even to himself. He couldn't pinpoint what he needed to change for it to work, anyway, so he left it, a fluttering scrap on his desk. 

 

The next three he wrote were perfect, easy and quick to flesh out with the guys during practise.

The fourth he brought was fine too until Jon said, "It should maybe be higher at the end of the chorus."

Ryan nodded. Jon was right, but, "I don't think I can go that high." 

Also he didn't like the way he sounded, the way he articulated that second line in the first verse, but he wasn't quite sure what to do about that. 

"Maybe we could leave it for a bit."

Jon nodded, easy, and they moved on to run through some other stuff.

Ryan added the song to the first on his desk and forgot about it.

 

It started to piss Ryan off the next time it happened, if only because they were good songs, he knew they were, and having to scrap them just because he couldn't sing them was such a waste. Jon had tried too and that was closer but still not quite _there_. He went back over the three he'd accumulated, trying to figure out what it was about the words he needed to fix.

It didn't work. He took the new one to practice and sung through it, rough and wrong.

Jon arched his neck to the side. "It sounds kind of like-- " He stopped, frowning.

"Like what," said Ryan.

Jon shook his head.

 

The fourth one was particularly good. Ryan was desperate not to scrap it. The words had come so easily, he'd seen them so clearly from the Alex's front porch, hunched over his notebook, half-high and half-drunk and not really either. He'd barely needed to go over them twice; it was still so real and vivid and perfect. 

He stopped halfway through about the tenth run-through, palm flat against the frets of his guitar, a little frown creasing his mouth, and said, "No."

Jon sighed, frustrated, and said, "Ryan, I don't get it. It's fine, really."

Ryan shook his head. "No, it's. I can't, I thought it was maybe the words, but it just. Needs more."

"More what?" said Jon.

Ryan twisted his mouth. "Just more," he said. "I don't-- I can't sing like that." 

Jon looked at him.

Ryan mouthed the words, fingering the chords silently, and pictured the way he wanted them to sound. The way they should sound. "Oh," he said. _Oh_ , he thought.

 

He stopped bringing the songs to practice after that. He didn't like the way Jon looked at him, wary and worried. 

He tore the pages from his notebook and filed them away under a post-it marked 'Brendon,' hidden under piles of crap on his desk. 

 

Eventually Spencer came across the pile sometime he was over at Ryan's place. He looked up when Ryan came back into the room and said, "Ryan."

"What," said Ryan, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

Spencer shook his head. "Have you spoken to him lately?"

"It's not a thing," said Ryan. Spencer arched an eyebrow. "It isn't. I just. I can't sing those the way they should be, and, so."

"So you've just got a whole pile of songs for Brendon," said Spencer, "That he's never going to see."

Ryan shrugged. "Yeah," he said.

 

The thing was, he did see Brendon, quite often in fact. It was like that when their circles still overlapped somewhat; the odd show around the place, a lot of the time when he saw Spencer. They didn't talk a lot, not really. Brendon was still, after more than three years, oddly closed-off in a way he never used to be even when things were worst, even when they weren't talking. Back then his silences had been loaded and expressive, full of feeling like he always was, like _Brendon_ as Ryan had come to know him, but now he was just _quiet_ , polite and distant. Now Ryan found himself thinking about stupid things like how Brendon used to look up when Ryan stumbled into the kitchen on the bus, smiling bright and blinding for no reason at all, and say, "Ryan _Ross_ ," leaning into Ryan's side while he poured himself coffee, still sleep-warm and soft.

He thought about things like that and decided he'd rather not talk to Brendon at all, like this.

 

He found himself standing close to Brendon at some party Jon threw, without real occasion, as they usually were. 

Ryan had parties too, now and then, but Jon had always been better at this particular kind of thing.

"Hey," he said anyway.

"Ryan." Brendon smiled, huge and wide and completely fake.

Ryan found himself suddenly, irrationally angry. "Don't," he hissed.

Brendon's smile faded immediately.

"Seriously," said Ryan, looking away, "Three and a half years? Just let it go, Brendon."

Brendon said, "Shut the fuck up," and when Ryan next looked over, he was gone.

 

Ryan seriously contemplated not going to Patrick's gig when he was in town, but he felt like an asshole often enough already so he did, dressing slowly and carefully to calm the odd restlessness he felt, his pulse skittering too fast beneath his skin, leaving him itchy, almost aching.

"Nice scarf," smirked Spencer, sidling up beside Ryan at the bar.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," said Ryan. He reached up to finger the knot resting against his collarbone.

"I didn't know," said Spencer. "We just got back into town today."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Clearly," he said.

Spencer elbowed him, laughing silently, and said nothing.

"Does 'we' mean Brendon's here too?" said Ryan eventually, carefully.

Spencer nodded. "He's with Shane somewhere."

"Cool," said Ryan absently, twirling his drink between his hands.

"You two are stupid, you know," said Spencer. "It's been three and a half fucking years."

Ryan shrugged. "If he'd just stop being so weird," he said.

"You're just as weird," said Spencer.

"Your mom is," snapped Ryan, feeling stupid even as he said it.

Spencer elbowed him again, harder.

 

The worst part of it was, Ryan thought four and three-quarter drinks later, the worst part of it was, he really kind of missed Brendon. Three years ago he probably wouldn't have admitted that even to himself, but he did, even the bad bits, the bits that sucked, that led them to this in the first place, because it was still _Brendon_. Being a little shit, yeah, but open and loud and passionate, the way Ryan had-- the way he'd loved. He could admit that now, too. 

Hindsight was the stupidest fucking thing in the world.

He shook his head at himself and tipped back the last quarter of his drink.

Brendon emerged from the crowd then, sweating, his t-shirt sticking to his skin. He had Shane in tow and they slotted into the empty space beside Ryan at the bar. 

Brendon leaned towards the bartender, smiling, mischievous. He didn't appear to notice Ryan. "Two appletinis please," he said brightly.

Ryan dragged his eyes up from the pale stripe of skin between the waistband of Brendon's ridiculous tight jeans and his shirt, and snorted. "Appletinis," he said. "Seriously?"

Shane laughed. "He's been watching a shitload of Scrubs," he said.

"I'm channeling my inner J. D.," said Brendon. He blinked at Ryan slowly, almost confused. His lips were wet, slick with alcohol. It had always been easy to tell when he was drunk.

"You're channeling your inner something," agreed Ryan, nodding.

Brendon stared at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then said, "Ryan, Ryan Ross, appletinis are delicious. Here." He slid one of the two over to Ryan.

"Hey," said Shane. He didn't sound upset. He was smiling when Ryan looked over at him, and said, "I'll just go fend for myself then," and disappeared before Ryan could say no, wait.

"Drink," said Brendon, watching him over the rim of his glass.

Ryan drank, swallowing it all in one long mouthful.

"See," said Brendon, beaming, placing his empty glass beside Ryan's. "Delicious."

Ryan eyed him warily. "You're being strangely friendly," he said.

"I am actually a friendly guy," said Brendon. "You may remember."

"From what," said Ryan scathingly, "Watching you with other people?"

Brendon frowned. "You," he said. Ryan remembered how he always had trouble finding words when he was drunk. "You really-- that's what you think, about that whole time."

Ryan shrugged and didn't answer.

"Fuck you," said Brendon, low and furious. "Fuck you, you're such an asshole. I wasn't even. I didn't want to fight. I never wanted to fight. But you, it's like you want to, like you _like_ it. Only not with Spencer or Jon or even Shane, or any of your new fucking friends, you just-- "

"Shut up," said Ryan. "Seriously, shut up."

Brendon shot him a glare and disappeared back into the crowd.

Ryan watched him, folding his arms. His head hurt. It wasn't that he wanted to fight. Not anymore. He had before, back then, he'd been so fucking angry and it'd been Brendon who'd risen to the bait every single time. Now though, it was just that things weren't okay and he didn't know how to fix them, and he'd rather fight than nothing. 

Brendon was so easy to rile up and Ryan did it on autopilot, without realising or meaning to. 

He didn't even know why except that it was familiar and better, in a weird, fucked-up kind of way, than Brendon and his polite, distant friendliness. 

 

After the show Ryan tripped his way to Alex's. It was the kind of easy, thoughtless company he wanted after-- after that.

Alex opened the door in his tattered dressing gown, dark circles carving out his eyes. 

"Hi," said Ryan, stepping past him into the house. 

"Can't sleep either?" said Alex, following him into the kitchen.

"Haven't tried," said Ryan, climbing up onto the table and crossing his legs. 

Alex watched him. 

"Drinking sucks." Ryan sighed. "Except for how it doesn't. Can we-- wanna smoke?"

"Sure," said Alex, climbing onto the table beside him. He pulled a roll from the pocket of his dressing gown, lighting up and passing it to Ryan. 

"Always count on you," said Ryan, muffled around a mouthful of smoke. 

"I'm pretty reliable," agreed Alex. 

Ryan snorted. "You have a really comfortable kitchen table," he said.

"My couch is even more comfortable," said Alex. "If you can believe that."

"Maybe," said Ryan. "I don't want to sleep yet."

"Okay," said Alex, taking a drag of the joint and passing it back to Ryan. 

He waited Ryan out. They smoked in silence for a while. Ryan rested his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward over them, blowing smoke towards the window that overlooked Alex's garden and watching how far it got each time, how hazy it made the shadowy trees trimmed with dull yellow Los Angeles light. 

"It's just," said Ryan at last. "It's just. Brendon."

Alex nodded. 

Ryan thought about adding something else, but that summed it up pretty well, actually. 

"Hey," said Alex. "We could run away. You could show me 'round Vegas."

Ryan contemplated this. "No," he said at last. "I have to-- I have to stay and be a grown-up."

"Sucks," said Alex philosophically. 

"Yeah," said Ryan. 

 

Brendon called him a week later. Ryan stared at the phone for a long time before he answered.

"Look," said Brendon. He sounded strained, almost desperate. "This is so stupid. We're adults, okay, it's been three and a half years, you know, we. We should probably stop, whatever. Get over it, like you said."

Ryan opened his mouth, not entirely sure what he was going to say, but Brendon cut him off.

"Don't," he said. "Just don't, you know, say anything. I don't want to fight again."

Ryan said, "I've been writing."

"…What?" said Brendon.

"Songs," said Ryan. He swallowed. "For you. To, you know, sing."

There was a long, long pause. "What?" said Brendon again at last, so quietly.

"I can't sing them," said Ryan. "Or whatever. But. I don't want to fight either. I know you think-- but I don't anymore, so. I have to go, anyway."

"I," said Brendon. He still sounded off-balance, surprised. "Okay, yeah." He hung up.

 

He felt stupid for thinking Brendon might call back. He didn't see him again til he was over at Spencer's place and didn't talk to him until they left, both of them at the same time, standing on the sidewalk with their hands in their pockets, waiting to go their separate ways.

"What you said," said Brendon into the silence, "About the songs." He stopped.

"I just," said Ryan. He looked away from Brendon, over across the street. It was getting dark. "I can't sing them."

"Right," said Brendon.

"I didn't do it on purpose or anything."

"Right, no." Brendon nodded. "How inconvenient for you."

"What the fuck," said Ryan. "It is a little, yeah, seeing how we're not actually in a band together anymore."

"Which is only the case because you stopped writing songs for me in the first place," said Brendon. "Because you wouldn't listen to any of my ideas, or-- "

"Stop," said Ryan, half viciously angry, half incredibly tired. "Just shut up, okay."

"No," said Brendon. His voice was loud, hoarse. Ryan remembered with a wrench that he used to sound like that sometimes when he wanted to cry but wouldn't. "No, fuck you. You don't get to just-- just stop talking to me and start your own band and not see me around anymore and, and." He stopped, pressing his mouth into a furious, white frown.

"You stopped talking to me too," said Ryan quietly.

"Because you were an _asshole_ ," said Brendon. "Nothing I did, I tried, and nothing was good enough for you and your fucking _words_. I don't want your words anymore."

Ryan clenched his hands into fists, nails cutting into his palms. "Don't pretend like you weren't trying to be difficult," he hissed. "Like you weren't fighting me on every tiny fucking thing just because you _felt_ like it, turning everything into something it wasn't."

"You wouldn't listen," said Brendon. "You wouldn't fucking listen to a word I had to say, it was all about you and your fucking ideas and fucking Ryan Ross all the fucking time."

"Because I wrote them," said Ryan furiously. "I wrote them, and you weren't getting it."

Brendon stared at him. "This is fucking stupid," he said at last, quieter. "This is why we stopped in the first place. Because you stopped writing songs I could sing. I tried, but. I don't think you wanted me to anymore."

"Things changed," said Ryan. "It's not stupid."

"So what," said Brendon. "You want me to what, I don't even know."

Ryan shrugged. "I don't either."

"Okay," said Brendon.

There was a silence. "You want to see the songs?" said Ryan at last, horribly hesitant. He crossed his arms and hated how vulnerable he felt.

Brendon looked at him for a long time. "Okay," he said again, finally, quiet.

 

Brendon stood awkwardly in Ryan's apartment, one arm held across his stomach, eyes darting about. "You've repainted," he said.

"Yeah," said Ryan. He could see Brendon's fingers twitching at his sides and bit back an unexpected, automatic smile.

"So," said Brendon. "Um. The songs."

"In here," said Ryan, and led Brendon to his study.

He handed Brendon the pile of torn-out pages and watched him, the way he stared down at the post-it and traced the letters spelling out his name like he didn't even realise he was doing it before shuffling through them. Ryan's chest felt oddly tight. "Do you-- " said Brendon, looking up, "Do they have music?"

"Some," said Ryan. "The ones we tried playing with the band. The rest-- " He shrugged. He didn't say that he couldn't, couldn't write Brendon's music.

"You could show me?" said Brendon.

Ryan nodded.

 

He listened to Ryan play them through the first time, sitting with that kind of forced stillness he drew on sometimes, hands folded tight in his lap, holding in the fidgeting, the thrumming movements. Ryan stared down at his own fingers and cleared his throat far too often, and only looked up when he was finished.

"Can I-- " Brendon gestured jerkily with his hands. "Borrow a guitar, maybe?"

"Oh." Ryan nodded and Brendon moved quick, almost eager, to grab another acoustic.

He sat back down, legs crossed, opposite Ryan, the curves of the guitar folding over his thighs, fingers settling on the frets. Ryan swallowed and looked away.

"Play," said Brendon quietly.

Ryan did. Brendon played with him this time, and sung, peering down at the words Ryan knew by heart, quiet, just testing the melodies, but already better than Ryan had imagined.

"What about the other ones?" asked Brendon when they were through.

Ryan shrugged. "I can't write them," he said.

"Okay," said Brendon. There was something soft, not quite a smile but something easier, friendlier playing about his mouth.

"You could." Ryan aimed for nonchalant and missed, he suspected, by about a mile. "You could take them, if you want. Not-- I mean, just." He stopped.

"Okay," said Brendon again.

Ryan nodded and there was a silence, Brendon fingering restless chords on the guitar. "I did," said Ryan eventually, softly.

Brendon looked up through his hair, lashes falling tired and heavy across his eyes. "Did what?"

"Want you to sing them. It's not like-- " He stopped, shaking his head. "It's not like I was happy about it. It was never easy, but I never actually wanted it to end."

"Yeah," said Brendon. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Well." He shrugged. "Things change."

"Yeah," said Ryan. He looked at Brendon, his pale skin and dark hair, his eyes, his mouth wet and open around his words, Ryan's words. "Yeah, they do."

 

Brendon said, "I guess-- " in Ryan's doorway, uncertain, standing with the papers in one hand.

Ryan didn't know what to say either. He caught Brendon's chin between his fingers and leaned in to kiss him, quick and hard and bruising. 

When he pulled back Brendon's eyes were wide behind his glasses, sitting slightly too big on his face.

"What," he said. "Ryan, what." His lips were shining in the dull, pale light bathing Ryan's apartment.

Ryan shook his head and leaned in again. Brendon jerked backwards.

"You can't." He bit down on his lip. "You can't just, Ryan, you don't. I _missed_ you."

Ryan stopped, their faces inches apart; his head angled down, Brendon's tilted upwards. He thought about those last few months, the tension, the biting anger lacing the silences, and Brendon's face when they'd finally decided to stop. "Brendon," he said.

Brendon shook his head, blinking, and slipped away.

 

"He wasn't okay, you know," said Spencer. "When we split up. I know no one was, but he always tried so hard for you. It hurt, I think. That you didn't need him anymore."

"It's not like I didn't try," said Ryan.

"I know," said Spencer. "I'm not saying it was your fault. We needed it. But it sucked for him, is all. Ryan, he's." He paused. "He was a little bit in love with you, I think."

Ryan said, "Spence," swallowing past something tight, painful in his throat.

"It's not your fault," said Spencer. "He's okay. He is. Just maybe don't fuck with him."

"I'm not," said Ryan. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Well," said Spencer, "Maybe figure out what you want."

"I. Yeah," said Ryan.

 

He didn't hear from Brendon for a while after that. Which was fine. It wasn't like he was actually expecting him to-- he didn't even know. He still wasn't sure what he wanted from this whole thing. 

Except Brendon, said a voice in his head. Brendon, Brendon, Brendon.

They went on tour with the band, playing stuff from their third album, all the slow, lilting, whimsical little things they'd gathered together over the last few months, strumming endless chords on small, badly-lit stages. It was kind of nice, just jumping onto the bus outside venues, never having to worry about huge gigs and stadiums and too-long soundchecks and security. 

Jon smoked beside him at truck stops and gas stations, leaning against the side of the bus, the parking lots cold and quiet, the cigarettes warm against the palm of his hand. 

When he made it back to his apartment he dropped his bag by the door and just stood for a moment, still and tired, running a hand through his hair. Then he bent to pick up the mail and sorted through it there in the hall: bills, bills, bills, some stuff from the label, the local council, and--

and a CD from Brendon. 

Ryan stared at it, blinking, just a blank white disc with 'Ryan' scrawled across it in Brendon's heavy, unmistakable handwriting. 

He thought about getting into bed, leaving it til the morning, even as he shuffled into his bedroom and slipped it into the stereo, sprawling back across the mattress.

Brendon's voice was scratchy at the start, a little hesitant and oddly raw, but it grew and swelled through the songs, Ryan's songs, with the same easy confidence Ryan remembered, soft strumming acoustic and little licks of percussion that sounded suspiciously like Spencer. 

He stared quietly up at the ceiling, perfectly still, until the CD finished. 

After a long, silent moment he clenched his hands tight in the sheets and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the way it felt stupidly, achingly like he was just coming home. 

 

He did leave it til morning to call Brendon. "I got the CD," he told him.

"Oh," said Brendon.

"Yeah," said Ryan. "Brendon, it's-- " He stopped, because what, he could say _Brendon, it's great_ , or even _I loved it_ , but none of that even came close. None of it felt real enough. 

"Thank you," he said at last, soft.

"Oh," said Brendon again. When he added, "You're welcome," his voice was just as quiet.

Ryan nodded at no one.

"Hey," said Brendon. "Hey, are you seriously, I mean, there must be something else, right? I mean, something you want to change. There's always something." He was smiling this time though, Ryan could hear it, and it sounded more like an invitation than an accusation.

"Well," he said, "There was that bridge on the third song, it needs a minor chord in there somewhere, and the chorus on the fifth, you need to slow down the words a little, you can't-- "

Brendon cut him off, laughing. "Ryan _Ross_ ," he said. "I fucking missed you."

I fucking missed you too, thought Ryan. "You wanna grab coffee?" he said instead.

It wasn't going to be easy, this, whatever it was, Ryan knew and he thought Brendon did too, but his, "Yeah," was still quick and breathless and completely unhesitant.


End file.
